


30 Day Drabble Challenge

by scottmczall



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3611766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottmczall/pseuds/scottmczall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of daily works for multiple rare pairings.<br/>To make things a little easier, I'm specifying the chapters ratings with the ratings first letters, so (M) for Mature, (T) for Teen and Up, and so on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings - Vernon Boyd/Stiles Stilinski (G)

**Author's Note:**

> These are different from the pairings I usually write for, but I wanted to organize this here in case it get's lost on my tumblr. Hope you guys enjoy it!

It’s over. They’re inside of a cave in the middle of the woods, the place is empty, like their course of action called for, and it’s  _over_. Stiles takes an easy breath, relieved out of his mind when he finishes the binding spell. Boyd only closes his eyes, almost hopefully, and tightens his lips.

 

Scott had paired the two of them up to pull the last string on their plan for taking out the latest big bad. As it turns out, other packs suck. Stiles hates  _them all,_ and they need to stay the fuck away.

 

He smiles cheekily at the boy beside him, nudging him with his elbow. “We’re a pretty good team, huh?” Stiles teases, wiggling his eyebrows at the werewolf. Boyd sneers, shrugging lightly, and Stiles really thinks he’s putting too much effort into ignoring him. Which,  _rude_. “Oh, c’mon, man, we just saved the town’s ass, the least you can do is fucking gloat.” He encourages.

 

Boyd gives him this heavy-lidded, incredibly unimpressed look and smirks in the same tone. “I’m gonna pass.” He says calmly, turning the other way.

 

Now, Stiles is many, many things—he’ll admit to almost any label he’s given, because, well, yes, he’s an annoying spastic fragile human being—, but he’s never been a quitter.  _No_. Boyd’s dismissiveness only fuels him, if anything.

 

“Wait up, man!” He whines, following Boyd with long steps in his direction. “We’re in the same pack now, alright? You can’t just ignore me forever. I’m here, and I’m pretty loud, kinda hard to overcome my presence, huh? I know that ‘cause many have tried.” Stiles babbles hopefully, almost tripping when he tries to keep up with Boyd’s pace.

 

Boyd seems to consider this, by the way he isn’t stalking away anymore, looking pensive. He almost rolls his eyes for a second there, with Stiles’ wishful look lingering over him. “Why can’t you just let this go? You  _have_  friends.”

 

Stiles frowns, taken aback by the question. “So what? I wanna be your friend too, is that so bad?” He presses and adds, quickly, maybe a little offended, ”Can’t be  _that_ bad.”

 

Boyd unashamedly side eyes him, a little softer on his edges, Stiles notices, and sighs in conformation, “Fine.” He breathes amusedly, but still a little unconvinced.

 

“Heeeey, see? That wasn’t so hard,” The boy cheers excitedly, “I knew you would warm up to me.”

 

Boys full on snorts this time, not bothering to hide behind his distance around Stiles anymore, “Not like you give me much choice.” He mocks.

 

Stiles’ mouth gape open, “Well, I didn’t _harass_  you, did I? I was just friendly.” He smirks sympathetically, proud of himself and acutely aware of how his friendliness is usually an absent trait. “This is the beginning of our friendship, Boyd.” Stiles states, overly fond.

 

Boyd sighs tiredly, feeling it when Stiles launches an arm around him, “Don’t make me regret this so soon, Stiles,” He says sternly, shrugging off of Stiles’ embrace.

 

“Right! Noted. No touchy.” Stiles nods, walking by Boyd’s side. He chuckles to himself, feeling accomplished. He’s befriended  _Boyd_.


	2. Accusation - Scott McCall/Lydia Martin (G)

He’d been seeing her looking at him—always devilish smile with a lowering gaze and endearing dimples. Scott brushed it off at first, because this is Lydia Martin he’s talking about. He’d even ignored her lingering touches and oh so close kisses on the cheek. For all he knows she isn’t one to do that.

 

(He knows quite a bit now.)

 

Still, it isn’t until Allison approaches him that he gives it the light of day. “You two should talk.” She says deviously, sending him the side look he knows so well. Lydia is across the hall, swirling a strand of her hair around her finger, ignoring Kira and Stiles’ babble about  _whatever_. Her gaze falls upon them every once in a while, like she’s debating wether to leave them or not. She stays, though—she always does.

 

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Scott shakes his head in the slightest, turning away from the view and back to his locker. He doesn’t even remember what he was doing before Allison came up to him, soft paced with a sweet smile on her face.

 

She rolls eyes at him, “Fine. But you know what to do.” Allison shrugs, pouting knowingly.

 

Scott frowns, finally looking fully at her, “I do?”

 

“Yes. You always do.” She replies fondly, stroking his arm before she leaves.

 

_

 

Scott listens to Allison’s advice. Always. Perhaps more than he listens to Stiles’, because those usually just get him in trouble. So he tries to trust his instinct with this, remembering the quick rise of Lydia’s heartbeat the last time he had squeezed her hand reassuringly, and how she leaned back on this side when he did so, dropping her head on his shoulder. Scott almost wishes she could’ve heard his heart too.

 

They’re at his house when he does it, and everyone’s just left the pack meeting after he asked her to stay. Stiles had sent him an encouraging look and two thumbs up before swinging an arm over Cora’s shoulders and leaving.  _Discreet_ , as he is.

 

“We need to talk.” He breathes it out, not entirely sure of what to do with whatever it brings him after.

 

Lydia raises an eyebrow at him, scanning the boy with a suspicious look, “Sure.” And the word sounds loose, being followed by a calming expression—borderline sweet, if he has to go into detail—like she’s trying to make this easy for him. For the both of them.

 

Scott swallows like he can just drown his nerves in a gulp and attempts a small smile, “You like me,” He accuses, tilting his head. Lydia’s still put together, but he hears it when her heartbeat spikes up. She lowers her gaze, pursing her lips and smiles above that—despite that. “I like you too.” Scott finishes, giving her a small shrug, in a possibly failed attempt of seeming better at handling this than he actually is.

 

Lydia  _glows._ In all her glory and humanity, she radiates—and for all Scott knows she can be the sun itself, if it suits her; he won’t mind. “You better.” She huffs, taking a few steps towards him.

 

When he kisses her he swoons, feeling weak on his feet. It’s nothing like the moon making his bones itch and his skin feel too tight; it’s more like the ocean, the air, the sand and things that are jut meant to be. They’re meant to be.


	3. Restless - Scott McCall/Isaac Lahey (G)

 

Some nights are really hard. He’s talking heart wrenching, sheets soaking hard. It does’t trump the nights when they’re out fighting for their lives—and others'—, but it’s something of an alarming proximity that has him rolling to his wake in the middle of the night. 

 

Isaac mostly doesn’t panic—he’s learned not to, he’s learned that screaming gets him nothing but a little more time inside an empty freezer with him and all his past selves, clammed together inside an unwelcoming space. That’s not the case anymore. He has a comfortable bed and something he sometimes dares call a family. Mostly that’s enough… but not _always_.

 

He tosses and turns, shutting his eyes for seconds of flashbacks to worse days. It’s funny to think that these are better, with the moon hanging over him, imposing, demanding, _powerful_. But it’s a fact he can’t escape—there’s another day coming, water is tasteless, the sun burns bright and this is better. 

 

The door to his room cracks open, and he knows it’s Scott sliding in. He’s light on his feet, careful and gentle, suiting him entirely. “Isaac?” Scott calls, voice barely breaking the silence surrounding them. 

 

Isaac swallows and runs a heavy hand over his damp forehead, trying to gather himself, “Yeah,” 

 

Scott takes a few steps forward, stopping when he’s by the end of the bed, and Isaac feels his uncertainty, mixed with something he can’t quite make anything out of. “Are you okay?” Concern drips from the Alpha’s lips, and Isaac almost gasps, feeling guilty just from liking that so much. “What's wrong?” 

 

“II, uh—I can’t sleep,” He feels himself almost choking on his words, “Nightmares. S’nothing, just happens sometimes, it’s fine. I’m good.” Isaac waves him off, trying to relax and give Scott some reassurance. 

 

Scott hesitates, taking a slow step back, “Yeah I can go,” He starts, “If you want to… But I can stay too,” And now he sounds sure of himself, “I kinda wanna stay.” 

 

Isaac seals his lips shut, finding himself lost in an uncertainty that’s surely going to choke him out eventually. So he breaks it, “That’d be fine. I mean, if you—if you want to, yeah, that’s… Fine.” He measures, pulling himself up by the elbows. There’s a dim light coming from his window and that’s all he needs to see the almost shy grin that Scott offers him, climbing slowly on the bed. Isaac thinks about a number of things as he does; one of them is how certain he looks, like this is a ritual he’s familiar with. Another is how he crouches his way around Isaacs body like a predator—slyly and precisely—, even if he looks as _Scott_ as ever. 

 

When he lays, Isaac doesn’t know what to do with the silence all over again, starting to question his previous decision. Maybe this is too awkward. Maybe friends shouldn’t do this. (Maybe doesn’t want _just friends_ to do this). But Scott—bless his heart—, shifts, forcing Isaac to do so too, until his back meets Scott's chest and he feels welcoming arms wrapping around him. 

 

This is new. 

 

It’s loving and calming and insanely _new_. Isaac can’t help but relax into it, feeling his sleepiness’ haze get caught up to him all too fast. “Is this okay?” Scott asks, and Isaac knows it’s only out of politeness. 

 

He murmurs something in agreement, letting himself drift back to an undisturbed sleep, thinking about how this is actually, in all truth, perfect. 

 


	4. Snow - Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura (G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's how much i know about snow: 0

There are some things in her life Kira doesn’t question anymore. Starting with calls in the middle of the night and ending with… well, anything. This is her life now—one nonsense after the other. Beacon Hills does that, as it seems, takes reality and twists it into something cartoonish and broken—a lot of the times outright _sad_. But she has friends here, and _Scott_ , and she loves them. She would never leave. 

 

But then they make her.

 

It starts with a comment she makes about leaving New York before getting to see the snow, and then it becomes a whole thing. She regrets saying it—she didn’t even mean to say it—but it’s all just crying over spilt milk. Allison is going on about their school break in January and how they could go visit; then suddenly Lydia has family there (family that owns a hotel; who _owns_ a hotel?) and Stiles is giving her a thorough list of where to take Scott and why. 

 

She’s sure that during their madness she’s saying things under her breath and Scott’s hugging her by the shoulders, looking as bombarded as she probably does, and they're taking steps back, trying to remind their of how propitious their town is to supernatural disasters and how they _need_ to stay—but that’s no use either, because Lydia and Stiles are talking magical barriers and Allison’s talking arrows to them, all of them fierce looking, smothering them with love and concern. 

 

Kira has tickets in her hands by December and they tickle in her hand because she’d asked herself so many times if she would get to see other things ever again. 

 

“You ready?” Scott asks against her ear when their flight’s boarding gate opens, pressing a quick kiss on her forehead. Kira sighs and smiles up at him, nodding furiously, because yes, _yes_ , she’s much more than ready—she’s expecting. 

 

Scott makes everything easy. He listens attentively when she talks, and takes her hand when she’s uneasy about things. He took her hand when their friends ranted about the importance of getting away for a little while, then again when she decided that she actually really wanted to go. He takes her hand when they leave the JFK International Airport, breathing the impossibly cold New York air. Kira can feel it burn as she inhales, and it’s nothing if not riveting. 

 

Scott chuckles when she holds back a squeal, “Excited?” 

 

“Like I might pass out and fall.” She says breathlessly, almost actually worried about the possibility.

 

Scott smiles, squeezing her hand reassuringly, “I'll catch you.” 

 

Kira’s heart races a little—it always does when he says things, these things… _some_ things—and she nods slowly, paying attention to his easy features. Her look falls back upon the streets, and she thinks back to a time without foxes and wolves, without that spark she feels burning bright inside of her. Everything is different now and this might as well be an entirely new place before her eyes—for all she knows, it's a whole new world.  

 

“We should get a cab, right?” Scott breaks her line of thought, “It's kinda freezing,” He finishes, apologetically. 

 

“Oh, right! Yes! Let’s do that, and then—“

 

“Wait, can you…” He trails off after interrupting her, looking like he does when he catches a scent. Scott looks up and huffs brokenly, cracking a smile. “Look.” 

 

Kira blinks motionless a few times before following his eyes, but her breath gets caught when she finally does. “I don’t…” Her words die when she chuckles, drowning in fascination, “It wasn’t supposed to snow until tomorrow.” She says weakly, not paying much attention to anything but the sparkling flecks of white heading slowly towards the ground. 

 

“Looks like pieces of the sky.” Scott comments absently, and Kira swears he’s a second away from reaching up and trying to catch some in his hand. 

 

She smiles and looks down, tucking her chin inside her scarf before she leans against the boy beside her, “I'm glad you’re here with me.” It’s that simple. And not so much. She wants to say she’s glad she’s experiencing this with him—that she’s glad she got to experience _herself_ with him there, back in Beacon Hills, when hell was breaking loose.

 

Scott looks down and bites his bottom lip for a brief second, before offering her a shining smile, “Me too.”  


	5. Haze - Lydia Martin/Erica Reyes (M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't even hazy? I apologize.

Erica used to care a lot. She’d attend her classes religiously and perform all of her assignments with attention. Her grades were good enough for her not to have to hide them from her parents, and that was all that really mattered. 

 

When things at home starred going down a slippery slope Erica wasn’t sure they’d ever start climbing up again, things changed. She became a below average student at most, picking up only on one thing or another whenever she decided to show up. It was all too much, all the time, and she needed a break—so she gave herself one. 

That was all before Lydia, though.

 

Erica remembers the girl by lightning storms and a too-tight grip. She recalls the first day Lydia caught her eye, her pink lip gloss in place, a short blue dress and _fierceness_. Erica could’ve gripped to her chest by then, recognizing that she had been struck by _something_ , but instead she walked the other way around the hallway, and ditched another class. 

 

She’s not sure if that was the time Lydia noticed her, but Erica knows their first encounter down to a science by now, given the amount of time she dissected it, all on her own inside her room, at three in the morning with a joint hanging loosely from her lips. Lydia had grabbed her by the wrist when Erica was about to take a seat in class, and asked, in that petulant way of hers, “What do you think you’re doing?”. Erica noticed, though, when her expression loosened, eyes darting all over her face and stopping by her lips. She didn’t answer, and Lydia didn’t press, just leaning forward for what seemed like a more clinical look, before letting Erica go and strutting away confidently. She sat on another chair, a little further ahead, and threw back a glare Erica would later take it as one of her favorites. 

 

When they kiss for the first time, they’re under the bleachers. Erica had left class again, this time because she realized that there was nothing _actually_ stopping her from suggesting professor Harris to go eat a dick, and she wasn’t after any more trouble than her grades and attendance record already were. So she went for somewhere remote, planing to light one up—just to help ease her muscles, take her mind off of obnoxious chemistry teachers and similar matters. 

 

“A bad girl smoking pot under the bleachers?”, Lydia showed, teasing, “Are you even trying, Reyes?” 

 

Erica stared her down, attempting her best uninterested look, “ _No_. What are you doing here?” 

 

Lydia puckered her lips, musing as she came closer and closer, starting to cloud Erica’s judgment (though that might not have been _all_ Lydia), “Maybe I wanted some, and you looked like you could provide.” She replied, testing her ground. When Erica didn’t pull back or dismiss her, Lydia leaned forward like she had done once before—this time with more intent—, and sank to her knees, not hesitating before stealing Erica’s blunt with a smug, tentative smirk. 

 

“You _don’t_ look like the type.” Erica quipped, copying Lydia’s tone. She watched attentively as Lydia took a long drag, closing her eyes. Her mouth gaped open for just a second as she followed the girl's every move, loving the way she threw her head back slowly. Lydia took that as opportunity, as it seemed, and blew the smoke leaving her lungs in between Erica’s parted lips. 

 

She gave Erica a lax smile and moved forward, straddling her ably and loosely. “Like _your_ type?” Lydia asked—and if it weren’t for the sharply fake innocent tone, Erica might have taken it offensively. 

 

Contrary to that, she smiled, appreciating Lydia’s train of though, and gripped the girl gently by the hair, kissing her fully on the lips.  

 

Everything Erica remembers next is skin on skin, and it's soft, slow slide—the way Lydia’s lips outlined her nipple before she latched on and sucked almost absently, looking up, heavy lidded. She asked for permission with those eyes, and she demanded with them too. God, she could take the world, if it was up to Erica’s decision. 

 

Later, when they’re past hook ups inside school premises, evolved into legs intertwined at home, Lydia lectures Erica on school and all the things she can accomplish. She sounds like a worried mother at first, and then like a scared teenager preaching what the was taught, but she knows better than that. They both know better than that.

 

Erica cares again now, there’s nothing religious about the way the attends classes anymore and her grades are good enough for herself.


	6. Flame - Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes (G)

Boyd isn’t sure of at which point the woods started to feel like home. He knows now, though, that when his bare feet sink on the dirt, he feels whole in a way he had never felt before. It’s a primal thing that rises from the small of his belly and loosens it’s way to his entire body. The rush of fresh air surrounds him sometimes and leaves him almost overwhelmed by all of his senses enhancing, pulsing, _growing_. 

 

Erica does _not_ feel similarly. “Why the hell are we here?” She snaps when they make their way inside the preserve. Boyd sends her an unimpressed look, but squeezes her hand reassuringly, proceeding to open his path into the woods. 

 

The last hour of sun shines above the trees, beaming light through their leaves. There’s a whisper coming from the south, where Boyd knows there’s a water spring, and his heart flutters noticeably when he sighs to the sound of it, “Because you’ve been stressed.” He replies calmly. 

 

“This is supposed to calm me down?” She presses, “Boyd, you know why I hate this place—it’s the same reason you should,” Erica complains with a frown, voice thick and low with resentment. 

 

Boyd keeps pulling her in with her, searching for the right spot. “I know. It’s the other reason why we’re here.” He throws her a look from over his shoulder, hoping he’ll make up her to her distress with what he’s got planned. She keeps his look up until he turns front again. 

 

They walk for ten more minutes, and Erica mutters things under her breath Boyd pretends he doesn’t hear at all, watching the sun disappear from above them, leaving a range of colors from orange to blue in it’s trail. It’s a beautiful sight, truly, in all its greatness and small details he couldn’t have picked up before, with naked human eyes—it adds up to the smell of leaves, oak andmud. 

 

He knows he’s gotten to his destination when he sees the two marked trees (he has otherworldly senses, yes, but he likes to be safe).

 

“We're here.” He announces, stepping further. 

 

Erica looks around, seeing a tent and a small stack of wood a few feet from it, and scoffs. “Boyd, this isn’t g—" Before she says anything else, Boyd reaches up one of the trees and flicks a switch, lighting up the lengthy string of fairy lights he’d arranged among six others trees surrounding the small clearing. The place lights up as the sun goes down and Boyd can practically tell through Erica’s eyes the split second when she forgives him for dragging her into the woods after a school day. Her lips part in awe, and her chin quivers just like Boys likes, as she turns around, taking in all of the view. “What is all this?” Her voice breaks in the slightest, thin and rushed with surprise.

 

Boyd takes her hand again, looking around as she does, “I don’t want you to think of the woods as a place where we get kidnapped,” He shrugs, throwing her a small smile. He gets closer, pulling her gently by the waist and placing a quick, soft kiss on her forehead, “I want you to feel it.” 

 

Erica smiles fondly up at him, still flicking looks around them, “Boyd, do you want me to become one with nature?” She teases, a little teary eyed, and the boy smiles a little bigger—a little brighter. 

 

“Yes.” He answers shortly, taking a small rock out of his pocket. It’s red toned and chipped, used to the core, but Deaton had said it would do. “I think this could help.” He gives it to her, watching as she analyzes it sloppily, flipping it repeatedly without seeming to take anything in.

 

“What’s this?” She smells it this time and Boyd laughs, lowering her hand with his so she won’t _taste_ it. 

 

He pulls away from her, “It’s a charm. It’s supposed to help you see this for what it is, instead of what you _feel_ like it is.” The boy points to the stack of logs by the tent, “You should concentrate.” He nods encouragingly and Erica throws him a quizzical look, reluctantly giving the charm attention. 

 

She presses the rock in her hand, looking forward and closes her eyes, breathing deeply. Boyd knows she must be thinking a thousand things at a time, most of it about how ridiculous this is or how it must look, but when her shoulders sag and she shakes her hair loose, he knows she’s got this. It all happens in fast. Erica opens her eyes, flashing them yellow, fangs falling free and the charm _glows_ almost as much as she does. The stack ignites and Erica’s sighing in something of relief and a half dead growl caught on her throat. “Boyd.” She sobs euphorically, turning his way, fast like lightning.

 

Boyd swallows, torn between looking at her and the fire she had just set, “What do you feel?” The words escape him before he can do anything about it.

 

Erica reaches for him, trapping the wolf in a warm embrace, “Everything.” 


	7. Formal - Malia Tate/Isaac Lahey (G)

Malia is spacious. 

 

She had the woods to herself and too many square feet to prance about, to breathe in, to _explore_. Her heart swells to the idea of doing whatever she wants, to be tied only to herself, even if she’s still responding to others, and sometimes it’s what she dreams of—a step towards the leaves and trees and herself. 

 

She’s got a little less of that now. A lot less. It chokes her at times, and she gasps for air by freeing herself of this skin, and putting herself into another—one she knows better. She takes walks around the woods, and makes a point to trace places she’s been at before, but it’s not the same. She’s not as sharp, not as good, and her breathlessness becomes frustration more often than not. 

 

Malia does her best not to talk about this. There’s something that simmers inside her friends' eyes when they believe she’s getting better—like it’s _wrong_ to be the way she is. They’re euphoric for her recovery into humanity and when she takes in lines and more lines of history she isn’t sure what they think is so special about it. 

 

But that’s not all of them. One of those eyes is blandly blue, no matter her alleged progress. Isaac glares at her, at most, whenever she’s not _socially inappropriate,_ and it’s nothing warm, or scolding, it’s just _there_. It’s calming, if anything else, to look into lack of pride out of her thoughtful pretending. 

 

“I know you don’t care.” It’s the first thing he says to her after one sign of improvement. The pack has gone about their business and they’re alone inside Derek’s loft. Isaac smells like pinewood and lavender soap. Malia doesn’t know why it’s so soothing. 

 

She stares for a beat before replying, “I do care.” She frowns. And it’s true—she cares for _them_ , and how much they want this for her. 

 

“No you don’t,” He disagrees, a sly smile playing on his lips, “I mean, I know cause I wouldn’t,” The boy shrugs, dropping his gaze to his feet, like he’s suddenly lost his apparent confidence, then catches her eyes with his again.

 

Her tongue feels heavy inside her mouth all of the sudden, like it does when she doesn’t have an answer for a math oral pop quiz. It’s the kind of silence that makes her face redden and her eyes dart elsewhere. She _dreads_ these. 

 

Isaac doesn’t take his eyes off of her, and Malia doesn’t miss the way his heart flutters a little before licking his lips, “I think that’s ok, though,” He says nonchalantly, “I mean, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” 

 

Malia seals her mouth shut, keeping her expression stern. There’s a sting of gratitude trying to reach her, but she blows it off, “Well, you’re the only one.” She almost sneers, growing fidgety by the second. They haven’t ever spoken to each other for this long, especially not alone. 

 

“They'll catch up… I’m,” Isaac swallows, “I'm here until then.” 

 

She can’t help but smile to herself this time, playing idly with the hem of her shirt, eyeing it profusely. And it’s a rush of relief, to feel like she’s making the first attempt of breaking their walls of formality, when all of the others had done the breaking—when they didn’t even know how formality had her skin crawling, along with clothes and _manners_. “That’s nice to know.” She flicks her eyes back up at him again, and he flashes her a smile like hers. She knows why _that’s_ soothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This made sense in my head bye.


	8. Companion - Allison Argent/Lydia Martin (T)

They meet when they’re six—the world is a colorful mess of endless possibilities and Lydia takes her hand. She’s like breathing air from the seashore and lighting up firecrackers in the dark night. They fit perfectly from the first second in, Lydia swirling a flowery dress like she exhales fresh morning air, and Allison picking up dirty from the sidewalk to find herself some pet worms. 

 

They flip, turn, grip and _fuse_ into each other as the years go by, losing track of where one begins and the other ends, trying desperately to deepen their bond, because everyone else keeps growing apart and carving their paths on their own. “Stay with me.” Allison whispers swiftly, laying in the middle of her bed with Lydia’s body contouring her own. It’s the last day of middle school and there’s a pit in the bottom of Allison’s stomach. The way Lydia curls closer, kissing her neck in reassurance, leaves a ghosting sweet taste sitting on her tongue. 

 

They watch as they grow into themselves, rounding hips and creeping desires, testing their grounds awkwardly, always two steps away from their usual familiarity. But they’re still there, grounding and heavy magnets—orbiting. Allison notices the shift in their sisterhood, and how her callused hands can’t quite hold Lydia’s soft ones like they did before. What was once dulness and comfort evolves to electricity and need, a sting for every knuckle. When Allison voices her thoughts, trying to pass them up as idle, Lydia retorts sharply with, “Are you complaining?”

 

Lydia's a lioness, and if Allison weren't one herself she would've been eaten alive at some point. The golden flicks shining through Lydia’s emerald eyes spark a little brighter when she discovers the pleasures within herself and others. Allison swallows her dark hooded looks when they start, and she drives herself mad, losing herself in them. She thinks making the discovery herself might give her back what she used to know so well, but even with thoroughly kissed hips and something new burning inside of her, she’s in for Lydia’s hand tracing shivering hot paths of shame across her skin whenever they touch. 

 

Allison has always been attracted to their sense of companionship and their openness—the silent permission to the wordings of any and every problem in or out of sight. When she refrains, quivering lips and bruised insides, it hurts her countless times more than straying by Lydia seems to do now. She hides out pathetically, feeling herself incompetent for being so lost on her own shell. Lydia becomes knocks on her door and avoided shadows down the hallway, feeding the lump on Allison’s throat that keeps reminding her of the unforgivable nature of her actions.

 

Lydia isn’t one for much knocking, or avoiding, though, Allison knows— _she should’ve known_ —so she barges and confronts, throwing Allison off her loop. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Lydia all but hisses, sealing the door shut behind her. 

 

Allison swallows, getting up from her bed, “What?” She practically winces at her own response.

 

Lydia lets her purse slide through her arm, placing it on the floor as she steps closer, “The avoiding, Allison,” Lydia shoots, "Need I be more specific about your pursuit for… _space_?” 

 

Allison’s shoulders sag, “I’m not—“

 

“Don't you _dare_.” Lydia cuts in, lifting her finger and closing her eyes impatiently, “Allison, don’t.” She warns, dangerously quiet.

 

The girl’s gaze drop to the ground, and she inhales shakily, trying to gather herself. God, she should’ve seen this coming a mile away. The thumping of her heart has her thoughts escaping her grip and she’s never been so utterly at her feelings mercy before. 

 

“Hey, Ally,” Lydia coos, suddenly a lot more closer than Allison remembers her being, and takes her hands carefully, “Tell me if I’m wrong,” She whispers uncertainly, inching even closer, brushing her full lips through Allison’s cheek. Lydia places slow kisses, under her cheekbone and nuzzles fondly before dragging her lips towards Allison’s. She stops there and pulls back, leaving only their foreheads touching. “Tell me.” Lydia demands a little more firmly. 

 

“You’re never wrong. Not about me.” 

 

When Lydia kisses her Allison lets go of weights she didn’t know she had been carrying. Air rushes through her lightly again and she’s back to herself—back where she belongs. The warmth spreading through her body has nothing on the irradiating heat from Lydia’s, searching intently for touch, contact, anything she’s willing to give. 

 

“God, you’re so stupid. I love you so much.” Lydia says breathlessly, her hand griping to Allison’s hair. The brunette chuckles, feeling her eyes wrinkle like they hadn’t done in the past few days. 

 

“I love you too.” 


	9. Move - Erica Reyes/Stiles Stilinski (T)

Erica doesn’t like _plans_. They tend to go awry and she’s always left caught off guard with her phone buzzing as someone updates her on the new ways of getting their asses monumentally kicked they found out about. So this is all against her will, as most things are. For all she knows she could be using her abilities for actually interesting things. Has anyone seen the way boys look at her now? She could just eat them up, one by one. 

 

Instead, she’s following plans.

 

The flashing lights remind her of spastic muscles and the metallic taste of blood—it’s not faint like she wants it to be, all too recent, and it has her lowering her head until she spots the bar and starts making her way there. Erica shoves people on her way as Stiles follows her, jerking his head forward to the sound of the music and she hates him for enjoying this so much. 

 

“Oh, nice! Are you buying me a drink?” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at her when she sits on one of the stools, looking warily over her shoulder. Scott’s supposed to give them some sort of signal so they can head his way. 

 

Erica narrows her eyes at Stiles, unable to keep a smirk from taking her lips, “You wish.” She bites, now eyeing the bartender, but he’s something blondish and bland, so that ends prematurely. 

 

Stiles’ eyes never leave her, and it’s been like that for a while now—since she’s told him about her stupid crush. It was supposed to be nonchalant so he would sympathize with her, but, well, she only later finds out that Stiles doesn’t actually seem to go nonchalantly about _anything_ … hence the staring. “We should go dance then.” He suggests, his voice a key too low for her to take it innocently. 

 

The girl snaps him a suspicious look, watching as his giddy features settle into something a little more serious, “Fine.” She decides, climbing off of the stool with a defiant eyebrow raised. 

 

“Really?” Stiles shoots, eyes going wide, but he recomposes himself soon enough, “Y-Yeah, let’s go.” He stammers, pointing loosely at the general area of the dance floor—which is very general, since everything that isn’t the stool line by the bar seems to be blend into one enormous dance floor.

 

Stiles takes her hand and leads the way, catching her by surprise. She doesn’t want to take this as a sign other upcoming surprises she might have tonight, but she’s from a superstitious nature, and it’s hard not to. 

 

Her palm tingles where Stiles’ slender fingers loop around, and it takes all of her not to yank him back and kiss him like she’s been meaning to. She had figured her newly found attraction would drown her feelings from him, laying them to rest, given the uprise of supposedly more interesting material coming her way, but she had been wrong. 

 

Their first week plotting together against the new threat—wendigos _suck_ —had opened her eyes to just how incredibly annoying Stiles actually is. He’s jittery, unfocused and, quite honestly, full of shit. But she _likes_ it, and it’s bewildering to think about how endearing all of those things sound to her now that she recognizes her crush isn’t only a crush anymore. 

 

When they’re deep enough into the crowd, the techno music pumping even harder to the beat of Erica’s heart, Stiles lets go of her hand. He throws her a look she can’t make anything of, and starts _moving_. 

 

His hands flail up and swing down while his knees open and close lacking some serious coordination. Erica watches in awe, because she’s never seen anyone being this horribly disastrous at anything before. The bubble of laughter rising from her chest bursts loudly before he can do anything about it. She splays a hand across her chest as she throws her head back, and Stiles’ giggle can be heard on the background.

 

“C’mon, this isn’t funny. It’s sexy,” Stiles intervenes, pulling her hand so she’ll pay him some attention. “See?” He wiggles his shoulders, inching closer to her and lowering himself with slightly bent knees. 

 

Erica doesn’t think she would’ve done this if the entire population of Beacon Hills weren’t claustrophobically crowding them, but then her hands cups his cheeks quietly, bringing him back up to her level, and she kisses him tenderly, it doesn’t really matter. Stiles flails a little, as he does, and she can feel his heart thumping hard through the pumping on his lips dragging against hers. He opens up to her pliant and willing faster than she had anticipated, and she’s suddenly as euphoric as he is. He’s enthusiastic and sloppy, and _heavenly_ , for all she knows, licking fiercely into her mouth with all that pent up energy she knows he’s got suppressed all the time.

 

When they break apart, she can feel his hot breath mingling with hers and lets out a giggle.

 

“Are you thinking about my moves?” He demands, throwing her a hopeless look.

 

She waits a few seconds, bitting on her bottom lip before saying anything else, “You're so, _so_ bad.” Erica mocks, laughing openly again, and Stiles follows her lead, opening up a rare grin before chuckling loosely. 

 

“But you like me.” He shrugs smugly, but his sentence sounds more like a question than anything else.

 

“Yeah, I do.” She nods away, getting close again, unable not to think about how actually _good_ this plan turned out to be. 


	10. Silver - Cora Hale/Lydia Martin (G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i wrote this my brains was half dead.

The moon is flicking and fluid—one for change, guiding emotions— _a silver Goddess_. At least that’s what Lydia’s thorough research leaves her with. 

 

She’d been interested, trying to find herself under the glistening silver full moon’s light, feeling her insides twist and turn, ripping itself apart in sympathy, maybe—connection, even. Whatever it is, Lydia wants it to stop, feeling as it messes with her sanity when lord knows she already has enough of that ghosting over her every breath. 

  

So she looks for ways out, only to be greeted by a heavy storm of unhelpful information about the moon itself. It’s quite fascinating, the amount of tales that have added up over the years, but she’s not interested right now. What she wants is good night of sleep without the beam of clarity enhancing mumbles in the back of her head and leaving her spiraling into her own musings. 

 

She groans, letting her head fall forward, lifting it only slightly to raise an eyebrow at her laptop. She’s at Derek’s loft, waiting for Scott to grace the rest of the pack, spread across the loft, with his _belated_ presence, using the time gap to go back to her search. 

  

Lydia hears a snort behind her, and soon enough Cora’s leaning towards her, elbow resting on the sofa’s back line, “What's gotten you all hot and bothered, red?” The words drip from her mouth slyly, almost mocking.

 

Lydia’s gotten quite fed up with her tone after the few months of continuous pack meetings, but after one particular outburst things only got worse, so now she refrains to controlling her breath, trying not to give her irritation away immediately, “None of your fucking business,” She hisses back, slamming the device shut before Cora pick up on anything.  The last thing she needs the werewolf holding more information against her.

 

“Feisty.” Cora huffs, backing away slightly. “It's the full moon tonight, so I won’t take it too personally.” 

 

Lydia turns back to stare at her, her gaze falling over the wolf uninterested and apathetic, “You should always take it personally, sweetie.” She throws Cora a tight smile, “And if you haven’t been paying attention, I’m not one of you, spurting fur out of my face.” The girl retorts sarcastically.

 

Cora narrows her eyes at her, crossing her arms smugly, “Well, _genius_ ,” She grits the words between her teeth, “The full moon affects everyone. Especially supernatural creatures. Last time I checked, screaming death out of you isn’t much on the normal side,” She shrugs, letting her arms loosen down and grip to the sofa’s back with one hand. Cora throws her hair to one side of her neck, displaying the other, and Lydia’s not proud of the way her cheeks warm, flushing red.

  

She blinks twice, trying to find her words and taking her eyes off of Cora’s damned—smooth, inviting, _enticing_ —neck, “I don’t think I share that,” She denies, eyes growing wider than necessary as the lies rolls out of her tongue with ease, “I’m doing fine.” Lydia insists. 

  

Cora doesn’t fall for that, though, jumping by Lydia’s side in a swift movement. She adjusts herself perfectly on the couch, legs spread and elbows immediately accessing her knees for support when she turns her attention entirely to the Banshee again, “You're telling me that you can’t feel it?” She looks at Lydia skeptically, a shadow of a smirk playing on her lips, “That you don’t feel like your entire body’s rearranging, driving you _mad_?” She moves forward, emphasizing her point. 

 

Lydia swallows hard, chin held high, feeling too crowded for her own taste. She looks around, as if in a cry for help, but everyone else is immersed in their respective conversations, not ever glancing at her. Maybe if Stiles were there—, but she knows he’ll get there just behind Scott, panting, with his hair ruffled and uneven. “I'm not—“

 

“You're lying.” Cora states plainly, “And you don’t know what to do.” She concludes. 

  

Lydia’s eyes widen once again, comically this time, and she’s got a long line of profanities to throw at Cora’s insolent self, with her nosy ways and lack of sensibility for discerning personal spaces and such.

  

“I can help you.” She says wholeheartedly, catching Lydia by surprise and throwing her for a loop. “We're not friends or anything,” Cora almost snarls the words out, “But I know how it feels. And I wanna help.” Her eyes shine, almost daring, if Lydia has to say something about it, and she’s eager— _Jesus_ , the things that does to Lydia’s insides are not to be spoken of (She ties Cora to the moon just for a second—Silver Goddess and all. This is a _nightmare_ ). 

 

The redhead muses silently, watching Cora’s every move—the way her look doesn’t even flicker, not once, in more than twenty seconds (counting is oddly soothing). Lydia sighs, closing her eyes as she recognizes there isn’t exactly an overflowing diversity of possibilities, “Fine.” She gives in, not half as vexed as she’d expect to be, or the word to sound.

  

“Okay,” Cora nods sternly, seemingly all business. “Come by tonight and I’ll teach some things.” _Seemingly_. Cora full on smirks this time, standing on her feet a fraction of second before Scott opens the loft’s door, and Lydia, in a rare state of mind (absolute bewilderment), thinks she might choke her on her own tongue. 

 

She’ll look forward to the full moon today. 


	11. Prepared - Cora Hale/Stiles Stilinski (G)

He supposes it could be considered a metaphor, the little package buried under layers inside his wallet. God, he’s an asshole for having it there, everyone just _knows_ guys that carry condoms inside their wallets are everlasting assholes, but when he’s fifteen and given it at school, it just kinda stays there and he doesn’t have the heart to get rid of it.

 

Maybe it’s a symbol of hope. Maybe, if he keeps it there long enough, one day, randomly, someone will finally get this weight off of his shoulders. It’s a dysfunctional logic he can’t argue, so, yes, it _stays_. It’s particularly heavy in his pocked today, when Derek’s out with Braeden, and he’s forced to spend the night at the loft. Alone. With Cora. 

 

She’s menacing, those dark brown eyes, stern, borderline _mean_ , and the way she hovers absentmindedly and yet totally threatening. Stiles has a crush. A big, fat, _bad_ , inappropriate one. She’s got claws and he has researching skills. She looks like a goddess and he’s let Scott convince him he’s absolutely _not_ under a five on a zero to ten scale, like, three days ago. 

 

“You can take Derek’s bed.” Cora dismisses him, heading for her room.

 

Stiles’ eyes widen and he scrambles forward, trying to reach her before she disappears into that corner of the loft, “Hey, how about, you know… no?” He argues, “The dude’s gonna kill me if he smells anything Stiles-like on his bed. You just _gotta_ know that.” 

 

The wolf sends him an unimpressed look, almost rolling her eyes at him, and sighs, “Well, I’m not gonna sleep there. Smells like sex.” She sneers, crossing her arms, looking dead in his eyes. 

 

Stiles swallows, because, okay, his pocket weights ten thousand times more now, “That’s not gonna result in your death, though, so I win.” 

 

Cora smirks for a second, seeming to enjoy his persistence, “Stiles, the other room is mine,” She reminds him, “ _I_ win.” 

 

“That's not fair. C’mon. I’ll sleep on the couch then, what’s the harm?” He offers, turning the other way with his pillow tucked under his arm, but she pulls him back by the shoulder, not nearly as aggressively as he’d expect her too.

 

“Stiles, the very reason you’re here is so you don’t get your ass mauled and killed by whatever is after us, _specifically_ ,” She stresses the last word, pronouncing them in between gritted teeth, "And you wanna stay one floor under me? Where the door and giant window are?” Cora mocks and Stiles keeps up her skeptical stare, nostrils flaring in exasperation, because this entire situation is just absurd. 

 

“Well, what do you want me to do? I’m not sleeping anywhere near wherever Derek sleeps, and you guys have nowhere else for me to go, so.” The boy shrugs, looking at her hopefully. He’s sure he can convince her to sleep at Derek’s. It’s not like it’s less comfortable or anything, it’s a win for her, _really_. He’s being a gentleman, if anything.

 

Cora lets go of him, and Jesus, Stiles feels the win in his veins, with the way her head drops a little forward, and her defeated sigh, “Fine you can sleep with me.” The words slip easily from her mouth, smooth and calm. 

 

Stiles is the opposite of that. Suddenly he’s a lot more callused than he remembers, and, _oh god_ , what is calm? He doesn’t know that state of mind at all, when all his gears start working at one hundred miles per hour, eyes almost popping out in surprise, “I-w—that’s n—that’s— _what_?” He stutters shamefully, mouth going slack.

 

“C’mon.” She signals to her bedroom with a small motion, and turns without paying him any more attention. Stiles follows dumbly, all small steps and that deafening _thump, thump, thump_ sound echoing inside his head.

 

Cora’s room is plain, following the loft’s rusty patterns, but she’s got a sandbag to the left, and a radio to the right. The bed’s in the middle, covered by white sheets and two black pillows.

 

Cora climbs comfortably on her bed after taking her shoes off, lifting the sheets so she can adjust under them and fluffing her pillow with her hands, “Stop just staring at me and get on with it.” She rushes him impatiently, and keeps at her routine. 

 

Stiles nods profusely, throwing his backpack on the floor and taking his shoes off as well. It’s awkward and he feels out of place, but it’s what he’s got for another night of survival, so he’ll take it—it would be a lot worse—it has been a lot worse. He takes his wallet out of his pocket, gripping to it loosely, looking for a nightstand, and deciding for his backpack instead. When he leans forward to recover the bag, he watches as the small leather covered item slips from his fingers into the ground, belongings splattering out of it in slow motion. The silver package glints from a far and rolls its way into a steady fall to the ground. “Oh, shit.” 

 

The boy scrambles forward for his dollars and mostly the stupid condom, but Cora’s faster (damned werewolves), and rushes forward, rolling off of her bed and catching the package easily, as he goes for it, “Stiles, did you come prepared?” She asks seriously, and he’s looking at her cleavage (was that even there before?), cursing himself with all the profanities he’s acquainted with. 

 

“Cora, no! I’m not—that’s just—it’s _been_ there for—“ 

 

Before he knows it, Cora’s melting into a fit of silent giggles, one hand on her belly and another pulling him onto the bed as she climbs it again, “I'm kidding.” She clarifies, getting under the covers and giving him the space to do so too. “Only assholes carry condoms inside their wallets, you know that right?” 

 

Stiles sighs, defeated, and closes his eyes in shame, “Yes, I’m aware.” 


	12. Knowledge - Lydia Martin/Malia Tate (E)

She should’ve foreseen this. She supposes the physicality of it all it’s what makes her _know_ so well. It’s skin with skin, primal and genuine, like her past itself, only so, _so_ much better. 

 

Lydia’s soft skin and a fit of gasps and desperate moans that make Malia’s fangs almost drop shamelessly with want, simply because it touches her like that—deep enough, intimately, rough. 

 

They’re good at this—being together, hand on hand, dragging lips and, quite essentially, fucking. 

 

Malia doesn’t even know how Lydia noticed, in her humane ways, her gazing. She thought she was being discreet, never letting her eyes stay on the girl for too long, making the casual travel from her heels to her thighs, a slow check around their surroundings, then torso to hairline. It was good enough until it became torture, only with this thrill of arousal that wouldn’t quit, forcing her to cross her legs in foul attempts of soothing herself.

 

There are never suspecting glances, nor Derek’s usual judgmental snarls, so the truth is only out when Lydia finally says, “Just tell me what you want.” It was a leveled tone—calculated, Lydia-like—and Malia feels too warm and out of place.

 

She obeys, though, because Lydia’s got these menacing eyes that could trap souls and the coyote isn't really reluctant of giving in anyways. So she drops, free falling hesitantly into this—into _something_. She’s not quite sure of what it is initially, but then there are hands on her and, oh… “ _Oh—_ yes!" She learns soon enough. 

 

It feels good to know something so surely again. Scott has leadership, Stiles and Lydia have strategy and academics, Kira’s got this blinding kindness (and a katana), while Allison has an affinity with deadly weapons, and Malia’s got this. Lydia keeps telling her she has other talents, and it’s true, she knows, but nothing will ever be this natural again—she’ll never write or count like she spreads Lydia’s thighs and sinks in like she’s meant to, drawing out incoherent babbling and that one final scream that pinches her spine. 

 

When Malia’s grazing teeth over Lydia’s folds, looking up, predatory, charming— _daring—_ and sucks like her life depends on it, watching a heaving chest and an orchestra of forbidden sounds, she knows she’s got the best area of expertise. 


	13. Denial - Cora Hale/Scott McCall (E)

Some things are alight all at once. Like a wooden house in the forest—that's swallowed down quickly by imposing flames and the way it licks long, fast lines of destruction, pealing skin and life itself in a way that manages to be both fast and excruciatingly slow.

 

She knows of fire she’s young, sweet and clueless. When she grows up, everyone tells Cora she’s lumberjack like, though, with her rough cursing and lack of finesse, and she won’t correct them ever. Because maybe she is. There’s no problem with that. But then she hears, “You're kinda like water,” And it’s all kinds of casual—slumped shoulders and a lazy smile, but she likes it so much better. Scott tells her about how she’s quick and a soothing kind of silent, instead of heavy and brooding—"Like Derek," he says.

 

(There was a time Cora would’ve liked to be water—maybe a river) 

 

(She rarely _actually_ talks about that)

 

Some things start like that, though—sweet words, side eyeing and shy snorting, a little brushing of hands and secret smiles, until they grow into tight embraces and desperate kisses. 

 

With all that, this what she knows of Scott for a while: what he thinks of her and his savior ways, with that contagious sense of duty and pulsing, _pure_ goodness. Which is why she’s thrown off later on. 

 

Now, she's used to surprises and the diversity of people’s sides—it’s one of the reasons she isn’t fond of blind trust and devotion—, but nothing could’ve tipped her off for Scott McCall and his broad hands and hungry mouth. She could’ve never seen him for this purely with imagination, without a glimpse of his glory. Hell, she couldn't’ve pictured him saying _no_. 

 

“Scott, just— _c’mon_!” It’s all she says for a while, hearing him chuckle in delight, proud of himself. Cora hates him. It’s the sixth time he’s gotten her this close, only to back off and let her cool down. She’ll deny anyone who worships his kindness from now on. He’s a motherf— “Scott!” It’s a helpless yelp, because he’s right there, sucking on the right spot, and she wants to tell him she’s close, but he _knows_. Of course he knows.  

 

He backs away then, nibbles lightly on her butt cheek and looks up at her with those earnest, brown, _innocent_ eyes. “Not yet.” He says calmly, kissing her thigh gently. 

 

Cora shuts her eyes, hands gripping to the sheets and head sinking harder into the pillow as this maddening frustration hits her, “God, you’re the devil. I can’t believe this.”She declares breathlessly, impressed with how quickly she had forgotten about her initial regards, when she could barely open her legs. Not they’re spread open and Scott’s looking at her from in between them like she just gave him the best present he could’ve ever asked for.

 

And yet, “ _This_ is fun,” Scott smiles, running his thumb over her hole and thrusting it in easily. “Right?” 

 

Cora breathes in sharply when his head tilts forward again, his controlled breathing hitting her clit. He kisses her, sealed lips shaping around the delicate nub, and she could seriously slap him right now… but he’s right. This _is_ fun. Well, was. She’ll take her release any day now “Scott,” She drawls, and it sounds both broken and warning, somehow. 

 

“Busy.” He answers amusedly, going back to his still touch right after. She’s about to call his name again, but then there’s his tongue. And it’s a glorious thing, because it works in the rhythm of his thumb, causing this intense, yet blissful coiling inside her that’s she’ll never get tired of, all for her. 

 

Scott licks gently at first, and hard after, leaving this caught breath on her throat, until she releases it with a ridiculous gasp as he trades his thumb for other two fingers. She loves those fingers (she’ll tell him about them later, maybe), but right now they’re not the ones swirling around her clit, causing obscene noises, so she half forgets them. “ _ScottScottScott_ ,” He’s a gift. Just like that—sucking with intent and thrusting like so—, a gift. Everything’s so hot and sharp and absolutely too much, running electricity through Cora’s body, that finally, _finally_ , she’s sent over the edge, her body arching up, and Scott follows, lifting right with her until everything's white noise. 

 

Scott scrambles up after a while, settling beside her with this happy grin on his face, “You okay?” He kisses her shoulder, looking up hopefully. 

 

She takes a few deep breaths, trying to still her persistent aftershocks, “I’m not fucking thanking you.” Cora says plainly before cracking a smile and they dissolve into lighthearted giggles. 


End file.
